Endgame
by lady-harker
Summary: Sherlock and John have their back against the wall while Moriarty currently holds the winning hand; and it would seem there he's making sure there's little chance of the pair surviving the encounter. -Continuation of 1.3 The Great Game
1. Endangered

**Disclaimer:** Do I look like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss? (The answer to that is no)

**A/N: **Okay so, I loved the Sherlock modernisation and literally screamed at my television at the cliffhanger ending of The Great Game and I just couldn't let it lie like that for a year. This is just an idea I came up with after much deliberation and thinking and has been written and re-written several times over. I would like to just point out that RedBrickandIvy (aka Burkle :P) was my test reader for the first semi-complete draft and thank you to her for giving me valuable feedback (even if we did get a bit distracted in the end). Also I should point out I got a bit of help from the Twitter community as well so thanks to them too. Anyway let me know what you think and whether it is worth continuing. Thanks

**WARNING! SPOILERS! - Spoilers for The Great Game**

This contains a large proportion of the last scene from the last episode of the series so if you don't want to know what happened then. **DO NOT READ THIS YET!**

**Endgame**

**Chapter One: Endangered**

"And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Jim Moriarty's harsh smile was so cruel, so shameless and so terrifyingly sincere it made Sherlock ill to look at it, but it disappeared as he spoke now replaced by an unrelenting smugness of someone who knows he's won, whatever else happens.

Although Sherlock had remained detached from the thought of peoples' lives in danger people had still been threatened, people had still been hurt, some people had actually _died _and that wasn't something that he could just dismiss. This...thing before him had performed cold-blooded murder lord-knew how many times before and right now Sherlock was the only one standing in the way of a new victim joining the body count. And in all truth that responsibility did not rest easy upon the man's shoulders.

Partly it was because people who had once depended on him had been killed, although it was an incident that he would never admit to anyone; partly it was because he could quite clearly see the 'next victim' just in his peripheral vision stood behind Moriarty watching their discussion with a combination of fear, anger and regret; but mainly it was because said person, currently the latest to be strapped into a jacket loaded with explosives, was John Watson, friend and flatmate to Sherlock. This personal aggravation gave more reason to the already more-than-well-justified gun that was directed at the criminal's head. Yet one wrong move and John, and more than likely himself, would be but the first in a continued killing spree and yet this man, this 'consulting criminal', simply stood there grinning away as though it were some great game to him.

Sherlock's finger was resting against the trigger and he knew that just a simple squeeze with his finger and the whole thing could be over but both he and Moriarty knew he would never do it, knew he wouldn't dare, not while he was using John as a form of human shield. The explosives on the jacket into which John had been forced would be detonated before that smarmy git ever hit the floor. No, Moriarty currently held the winning hand and executing the man would do nothing but worsen the situation for all parties involved. Maybe it was the knowledge of this fact, and there was no doubt that Moriarty knew it, which had given the criminal his self-assured swagger as he'd slowly sauntered his way towards Sherlock.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch you...later." He made perfectly sure that the barrel didn't waver from the centre of Jim's forehead ready, and more than willing, to squeeze the trigger should the need arise as the man turned and began to exit through a side door to the pool.

He called out in a ridiculously high and mocking, almost sing-song, voice just before the heavy metal door slammed behind him. "No you won't!" The resounding clang echoed round the room, mixing somewhat haphazardly with the splashing of water as it lapped at the edges of the pool.

The gun sight didn't move, nor did Sherlock; he wasn't wholly convinced that their 'friend' was gone for good. It took a glance at John's bulking coat and his very pale face to convince the man to move. Less than a few seconds and he'd crossed the space between himself and John, discarding the gun on the floor. Sinking to one knee he began to undo the buttons of the death jacket. If Moriarty _was_ coming back, and something was telling Sherlock he would, having John in a slightly less dangerous position would certainly make things somewhat easier. "Alright?" The buttons were sticking and it was all Sherlock could do to stop himself tearing the thing apart to free his friend; and as much of a sociopath as he was, Sherlock did consider John a friend.

"Are you alright!" John's knees were beginning to buckle slightly; most likely because all the adrenaline was rushing out of his system, give it another minute and he'd possibly be close to collapsing. Mind you, noticed Sherlock, he didn't look far from that now.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Once he'd opened it, Sherlock grabbed at the collar and harshly dragged it off John who protested somewhat at the force, but he ignored it focusing instead on getting the man free. Once John's arms were clear of the sleeves, the doctor staggered forward slightly and Sherlock threw the coat, flinging it as far down the poolside with as much strength as he could physically muster. The weight of the thing helped to propel it across the wet floor before it came to a stop at the far end of the pool where Moriarty had been walked moments before. Convincing himself that that position would have to do for now, Sherlock picked up the gun and darted down the short corridor the criminal had left through. He wrenched open the door but saw nothing; as he suspected.

It was pointless to go after him; if he was going he'd have some sort of getaway vehicle set up and could be miles away in mere minutes. Chasing after him would be ridiculous and a pointless waste of time. He turned and walked purposefully towards the pool before turning to head towards the entrance Moriarty had come through. He gave up on that thought quickly though. This man was maticulate in his 'art'. There would be nothing to go on.

Part of him ached to go after him, to stop him before things got further out of hand and more people died.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock turned from his pacing that he'd started to see John half crouched by one of the changing stalls looking less pale than before but breathing heavily. He'd almost collapsed, as Sherlock had suspected would happen, and now seemed to teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Me? Yeah. Fine. Fine." He wasn't fine. Moriarty couldn't be gone. There was something that didn't fit in this picture. Something wasn't right. "Fine." He took the gun away from the back of his head as he realised he'd been using it to try and calm himself down a bit; it wasn't working. "That, er...thing that you, er...that you did with..." he cleared his throat. "...you offered to do, that was, um...good."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?" He was still pacing; more on the spot than before but still pacing, partly to work off the adrenaline that was still in his own bloodstream and also to try and reassure himself that they were okay.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool." he drew his cardigan closer round himself. "People might talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock glanced at John leaning back against the stand between the cubicles and smiled. They'd made it. They were okay.

John had begun to stand up when the laser sight appeared on his chest again. Seeing it the doctor slid back down while a sound behind Sherlock proved his instinct to be correct. He hadn't gone.

As the door opened, an all-too-familiar voice called out, drowning out John's curse. "Sorry, boys!" Loud, shrill, obnoxious; it was almost as though it had never left. "I'm _sooo_ changeable."

Another laser sight had appeared pointing at Sherlock's own chest. His eyes traveled up to the gallery where he'd reasoned the first sniper had been when he first knew of their presence. The second had to be up there. Taking two steps towards the swimming pool he scanned the darkness in an attempt to make them out. With the small gun in his hand he could at least take one of them out before the other one could fire giving either himself or John that little extra chance of survival.

"It is a weakness with me but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness."

There were more than two laser sights coming down from the gallery and a small sideways look at John confirmed he had three of them trained on his chest. No doubt the other three were making a similar pattern on his own chest; they were both in this until the end; no magical escape.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty's voice sounded the most serious it would probably ever get and Sherlock saw the mild panic develop on John's face as he raised his head. "I'd try to convince you, but..." he let out a slight laugh and Sherlock searched frantically within his own head for a solution. It was just another problem and every problem had a solution; there was _never_ an exception to that rule, it just sometimes took longer to figure it out and time was definitely something he was running out of. "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

And that was when he found it. The solution. It wasn't perfect; it wasn't ideal; and it certainly wasn't clever; but it _would_ work.

He turned to John. The former military doctor recently returned from Afghanistan had a job. He had a sister, a girlfriend...a life. If this went wrong, it was John who had the most to lose.

There was no way he could communicate his idea without speaking out loud and alerting their attackers but he'd been reliably informed that when an idea entered his head an unmistakable glint sparkled in his eye. True, that had been under less strenuous circumstances when his own life, as well as the life of someone he didn't consider _entirely_ idiotic, wasn't in dire jeopardy but he really needed the element of surprise in this.

John's eyes met his for barely a small second. Then... It was so small, so slight that anyone who wasn't looking for it wouldn't notice but there was no doubt that that...was a nod...and that was all he needed.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock swung round and pointed the handgun at Moriarty once again, feeling all too wary of the laser sights on his back.

As he lowered the gun he saw Moriarty's smirk grow until Sherlock's gaze fell towards the bomb situated four feet in front of the villain's feet.

The amount of explosives on the jacket would most likely be small, designed to just kill John in the event that Sherlock didn't 'behave' or decided to call Jim's bluff. There was no way that he would risk his own life by coming that close to John so long as there was a possibility that Sherlock wouldn't be fazed by John's predicament.

But then again, Moriarty may have got a bit cocky. Put on enough to take out both of them should the need, or worryingly, the opportunity arise.

Either way there wouldn't be enough explosives within the jacket to cause more than minor structural damage to the swimming pool. There shouldn't. Sherlock could be wrong; but it was too late for that now.

He looked up at Moriarty. The criminal was smirking at him, trying to call his bluff.

His smug look of confidence began to fade as Sherlock squeezed the trigger.

The heat was intense and the power of the blast shook the ground with a resounding BOOM! that tore up the tile floor and threw the shards high into the air while tossing the water over the other edge of the pool.

Sherlock, who had been stood within five feet of the jacket, was thrown back with such force that he knew instantly, he had greatly underestimated Moriarty's arrogance.

Intense pain erupted in Sherlock's left shoulder as it made contact with the concrete edge of the pool before he was plunged into the water. He was quickly swallowed up by the water as he sank like a stone touching the bottom in mere seconds. Swimming ought to have been high on his list of priorities but he was somewhat preoccupied by another more pressing thought.

Snipers.

Six of them to be precise, all of them in the gallery, around twelve to fourteen feet above ground level and save being slightly shaken would be largely unaffected by the explosion. It was only a matter of time before they regained themselves and began shooting.

Seven seconds after Sherlock shot the bomb; five seconds after he made contact with the water; two seconds after he hit the bottom of the pool; and one second after his thoughts turned to the snipers, bullets began to tear through the water, narrowly missing him by inches and embedding themselves deep into the floor.

He had to move.

Paralysing pain seared through his left shoulder as he tried to use his arms to propel himself upwards through the water but he had to ignore it ; he was running out of oxygen. Kicking off from the floor, he thrust himself up through the over-chlorinated water. He gasped at the air once he'd broken the surface but quickly he turned his attention to the snipers. In the water he was too vulnerable a target and could be peppered with bullets within seconds. Except he wasn't.

The gallery was devoid of the red warning lights that had been there barely a minute ago. It was dark; silent; seemingly devoid of life.

Sherlock ran through what had happened in his head again and realised that after the initial wave of bullets there had been no more shots. The fact that he had not noticed this before surprised Sherlock but was understandable/

"Sherlock!"

He twisted in the water at the voice from the poolside. Thankfully John was alive if a bit worse for wear.

A minor head wound; sat with his legs beside him; holding himself up with his left arm, which was shaking considerably; some form of shock most likely. John's cry had sounded muffled; possibly in pain from some injury that wasn't initially visible and trying, unsuccessfully, to mask it.

The doctor seemed a considerable distance away and it seemed that Sherlock had been buffeted by the water to almost the other side of the pool.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine." He started to try and swim across. It wasn't a very large pool but when it had to be crossed by a rapidly tiring man it certainly seemed wider than your average swimming pool. It was difficult; his left arm was practically out of action as most attempts to use it in aiding propulsion caused the pain in his shoulder to intensify.

When he reached the side he found John's hand thrust in his face. He looked up at the doctor in a short moment of thought before he took the hand. John tightened his grip and used his other hand to help him haul the detective out of the water.

You had to admire his strength; for one thing Sherlock, skinny as he was, wasn't exactly a lightweight, especially now that his clothes had soaked up at least some water. Thank god he hadn't been wearing his outdoor coat. Also the pool water had reduced a good few inches below what it would normally be meaning John wasn't getting the little bit of extra help that would give him.

Once Sherlock could get his leg up onto the side John grabbed at his back and pulled him up so that Sherlock was on his hands and knees before settling back in a sitting position.

"You okay?" Repeated question. Possible shock, or maybe concussion; then again he could just be worried.

"Fine." Sherlock knew that John wouldn't believe that for a second and sure enough the qualified doctor who had previous experience with explosions and the like was at his side.

"Why don't I believe you?" he said as he helped Sherlock over to lean against the door of one of the closed, locked cubicles.

He had to admit it was certainly more comfortable than the canine-like position he had occupied before. It also gave him the opportunity to do a small self-assessment of his injuries.

There was the shoulder, obviously; his muscles ached from the temporary lack of oxygen and the shock of being thrown into the water; mild headache but little other in the general head area which at least meant he most likely didn't have concussion and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that was a good thing.

"It made an awful noise."

"What?" Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and found John had drawn back having satisfied himself that Sherlock wasn't in need of immediate medical attention.

"Your shoulder."

"Oh." He hadn't heard a noise but it was highly unlike something such as bone connecting with concrete _wouldn't _make one.

"How is it?"

Incredibly painful. "Fine. Just a bit sore."

John looked almost as though he wasn't sure whether he believed that or not but settled back against the cubicle beside Sherlock and let his head fall back.

"I thought you had a _plan_."

"What?"

"You could have _killed_ us."

"Whereas if I _hadn't _acted we would have been perfectly alright?"

John ignored his comment and rubbed his head by the cut he had sustained in the explosion, flinching as he accidentally caught it. "You weren't _trying _to kill us, were you?"

"What?"

"Oh never mind."

"All that happened was I somewhat...underestimated the threat."

"Yeah." John scoffed. "I can see that."

Following John's gaze, Sherlock saw the sizable pit at the far end of the pool where the jacket had been; the water from the pool had already spread to fill the extra space created. Even a few of the cubicles had been ripped to shreds while two or three had disappeared completely.

Staring at the wall, a wayward thought entered his head. "Moriarty?"

"I didn't see him." The sudden tiredness present in John's voice made Sherlock turn to see the doctor cradling his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. I guess." Suddenly aware of his audience, John took away his hand and shrugged. "Few cuts and bruises. No major damage."

Sherlock looked him up and down and came to a similar conclusion. Most likely his worst injury was the possibly developing concussion. Satisfied, he turned to the wall where the criminal had been stood just minutes before.

Moriarty had got away; and he was going to kill again; and again; and again. And there would be no knowing whether he was truly behind it or not. If he was, they'd never find the proof.

"You really shouldn't go to sleep, John."

"I know, Sherlock." Yet John didn't move to open his eyes which had slowly drawn themselves closed.

"Then wake up."

John didn't respond that time; if he was ignoring Sherlock this was the worst possible time.

"John." he shifted his weight so he was able to tap the man on the face. "Wake up, John!"

Gently tapping him on the face did nothing and even increased pressure heralded the same outcome. From experience Sherlock believed that this was a sure sign that worrying would be a reasonable course of action. Not necessarily helpful, but perfectly reasonable.

"Come on, John!"

"Stand up."

He froze as that horrifyingly familiar voice came from behind him; and it was at this point the Sherlock realised he'd lost the gun in the water. You didn't need to be clever to figure out there was most likely a gun pointed at the back of his head.

"Stand up." Slowly and carefully, he stood up taking care not to make any sudden movements. "Turn around. Slowly!" He did as he was told, feeling a fool for giving in so easily.

He finished up facing Moriarty but found a handgun pointed straight at the middle of his head. Yet there was something he saw that he couldn't help but smile at.

He'd managed to make Jim Moriarty bleed.

Unfortunately the blood running down the side of his head was the only injury he'd appeared to have sustained and it had done nothing to dent that sickening grin of his which grew as his eyes flickered to the still form of John.

"Oh I do hope he's not dead." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Moriarty laughed. "I mean...that would just _spoil _all the fun."


	2. Ingenuity

**Disclaimer:** I'm still not owner or profiteer or anything of that kind (and I still don't look like Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

**A/N:** So...wow! As I gather, the general consensus is 'more please' so here it is; more. Rather overwhelmed by the response and quite encouraged by most, if not all, of your reviews, alert addings and favouritings so I had little choice. I would like you to know there hasn't been a day when I haven't worked on this but there are seven versions of this chapter in my alternates folder (I never delete discarded ideas) and about five other endings that got booted before this one was figured out. Hopefully this works out the way I want it to and you enjoy it (sort of). Thanks again to RedBrickandIvy for being my idea-bouncer-off-er at 4 in the morning (11 at night for her) and then ordering me to bed when I wouldn't go. So, yeah...worth continuing?

**Endgame**

**Chapter Two: Ingenuity**

Sherlock had lost count of the times he had been held at gunpoint by a desperate criminal.

The barter system was simple; he would live if they were free to go; but most were simply desperate men who merely wanted to remain free. Wife, kids, money; it was merely a matter of finding their standpoint, their one good thing in life and convincing them to give up their fruitless attempt at freedom.

Then there were the times when the gunman had nothing to lose. Those ones would get away...temporarily. Usually they would disappear for a few days, try to lay low. But guys like that had friends in low places whose feathers would get distinctly ruffled by their near capture essentially placing themselves in the firing line. Leaving them with their only option; to get away, as far and as fast as possible. But they panic and become sloppy; they fail to think everything through leaving a trail of breadloaves that even an idiot like Lestrade would be able to follow. All of them are found within a week; most of them alive.

From the eyes, and the smile, Sherlock knew that this man didn't fall into either category.

"That little stunt was..._surpris_ingly stupid. Especially for you." Genuine disappointment weighed heavy on Moriarty's words and his face as his eyes fell to the floor. It didn't last though as his annoying smirk returned. "Tell me, what did you expect to accomplish?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Already his mind was too preoccupied with running through every possible outcome of any attempt to disarm Moriarty. So far, all of them seemed to end in his death and he had yet to factor in handicaps such as his out-of-action shoulder and John's safety. Not encouraging.

"Overall you've rather played this in my favour. " His eyes flicked up to Sherlock for a moment before settling on something behind him. "Lessened my workload, so to speak"

Sherlock didn't need to follow the gaze to know the focus of its attention. Resolutely he kept his eyes on the gun, unwilling to give his opponent the satisfaction of turning to confirm what he already knew.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" Moriarty chuckled dryly, the sound cracking in the air and curling his lips up into a maddening grin. "Starting to feel the heat?"

Despite his vast knowledge, Sherlock Holmes was not a medical man. John was, at the very least, seriously injured; and, although he normally doubted it, there was a distinct possibility that he was dying. Either way, he was only here because of Sherlock's own inability to recognise the risk posed to his flatemate. Ipso facto Sherlock was accountable for everything that happened to the doctor in this encounter that didn't seem to want to end. So, feeling the heat...?

"You're not going to shoot me." It was said with less conviction than he would have cared for. Now Moriarty would know he was right.

Moriarty grimaced mockingly. "Yeah, I am."

"In the last week you've held five people hostage; you've cut several people loose; not to mention thirty million pounds; and you've waved it all in the face of the police." Interest flashed in his eyes and Sherlock knew he'd intrigued the man. "Any one else would think this annoying, tiresome and intrusive, but you..." Sherlock shook his head slightly. "You _want_ to kill me but you're looking at the bigger picture. I can't see it yet myself but if you were going to shoot me you'd have done it already." Moriarty's smile slipped as Sherlock stared at him defiantly.

"How...insightful." Reluctantly he lowered the gun keeping his finger on the trigger; he glanced at it momentarily before looking up again. "I'm surprised I expected anything less from you."

"But there's something I can't figure out." Moriarty didn't seem to be a man who would waste his own time. Other people's most definitely but never his own; he was too self-important. "If you're not here to kill me, why _are_ you here?"

That awful playful grin grew back pulled wider than before by light-hearted laughter that escaped his lips. "To kill John Watson of co-."

"Don't." Even joking about that was twisted, and he _was_ joking.

Moriarty fell silent, his smile once again disappearing momentarily as he took a deep breath. "There's one thing you need to know, Sherlock. About me." He took two careful steps forward until he was mere centimetres away from Sherlock's own face. "I _always_ have a contingency plan... I _never_ give up... And I always, _always_ win."

"That's three things. Learn to count."

The consulting criminal looked about ready to scorn Sherlock but thought better of it and merely drew back. "Some food for thought." He turned away, walking down the side of the swimming pool . Each footstep clicked harshly against the tiled floor and echoed around the room, almost like someone was tapping a pen on the table just to annoy whoever was listening. "Oh, and Sherlock? You were wrong." He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the small side corridor through which he had first exited. "This." He reached up and indicated where he was bleeding. "_This_, I'm going to shoot you for."

One final flash of that hateful grin and he was leaving.

Sherlock waited, listening intently for the slamming of that door, unwilling to believe this over until he was sure that Moriarty was truly gone. There was a resounding clang as he left once more and Sherlock silently let out the breath he had been holding.

There was something about that man that set Sherlock's teeth on edge; but never, so long as he still had breath in his body, would he ever confess to anyone what he knew it to be. For, yes, he knew the source but it would not do for the wider world to know what he saw in that man. Absent-mindedly he reached up to his left shoulder as it throbbed again.

With the immediate threat gone, Sherlock was able to focus his attention on more important facts. For example the fact that John wasn't actually unconscious.

"Let's stop this charade now shall we, John?" he called to the figure on the floor behind him. "Before things take another turn for the worse."

Sure enough, he sensed movement behind him as John sat forward accompanied by an appropriate groan at the exertion. "How did you know?"

"Several clues; the main one being your breathing; too regular and much too shallow." The truth was he hadn't known to begin with, until there was an almost inaudible sigh of relief which escaped John's lips once their attacker was gone. "It was a good plan."

There was a pause in which Sherlock imagined the man behind him scrunching up his eyes in confusion. "But he didn't say anything."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grow a smirk as he turned round to his companion. "Quite the contrary, I believe he told us a great deal."

Madness, was what John's gaze said as he looked up at Sherlock. It disappeared as he shook his head. "Whatever." An attempt to push himself to his feet failed as his hand slipped on the wet floor and he banged his head on the cubicle. "How's your shoulder?" he said grinding his teeth.

"Slight soreness. Should be alright so long as I don't overdo it." Any movement caused his muscles to tense up resulting more in discomfort than pain, much like contracting leg muscles as proper blood supply is returned allowing to nerves to send impulses again. "How's your head?"

John breathed in harshly through his nose. "Bloody painful."

For less than a second John and Sherlock caught each other's eye and burst into silent, shallow-breathed laugter; later, Sherlock would declare it a combination of adrenaline, strenuous circumstances and stretched nerves but for a few moments it helped release the tension that had built.

Once the laughing eased, Sherlock held out his right hand to help the doctor to his feet, realising the irony in the act as John took it and, with his help, heaved himself up.

...

Sherlock stiffened. The hair on the back of his neck bristled and his grip on John's hand tightened.

"What?" Unsurprisingly, the sudden change was picked up on by his colleague who's eyes immediately turned to the wall behind Sherlock. "Sherlock, what is it?"

...

His ears were straining to hear it but there was a sound; it was small; a fair way off and impossible to discern but it wasn't likely to be DI Lestrade and the idiotic boys in blue come to their rescue. For one thing, Sherlock hadn't told them what he was doing, where he was going or even what it involved. For another, even if he had, they'd probably still be up to their ears in traffic, or paperwork, or...coffee and nowhere near achieving any _real_ police work.

..boom..

That time he heard it. Which meant it was getting louder; which meant it was getting closer; which couldn't be in any way, good.

..BOOM..

He practically threw John's hand away, although the doctor didn't pay it much attention, now able to hear the noise as well.

Two long strides down the poolside and Sherlock could see the goalposts that sat at the front of the small enclave on the far wall clearer. There for the younger swimmers sessions; set up for some form of water football or something where one particularly strong child always threw the ball with such ferocity into the top right corner that the net was beginning to pull away from the bar. He took in all of this in less than a second but all of it was irrelevant.

..BOOM..

What _was_ important was the way the net had twitched with the last few explosions. Even more important was the fact that the frame was starting to shake with it and each noise made the shaking become more and more violent.

..BOOM!..

"We need to get out of here."

"What?"

Sherlock ignored the doctor's confused words, instead taking a few steps back as he turned his back on the growing explosions. For that's what they were; smaller than the one Sherlock had started but unmistakable; explosions; and they were getting closer.

"Out!" He grabbed John's arm, turning him around and steered him towards the way that he had originally come in however long ago it was; he didn't have the time to look at his watch.

BOOM!

This explosion was followed by a deafening smashing sound as the back of the small enclave were blasted out into the room while it simultaneously caused the door that Jim had come through to collapse.

"Run!"

John's arm was pulled out of his grip to better aid the doctor's momentum which was fine, it gave Sherlock the oppurtunity to focus more on his own speed. He managed to reach the door first, opening it and taking a step through just before the next explosion.

But only just.

BOOM!

* * *

It was John's turn to be blown backwards.

The force didn't throw him far, barely more than a foot where he landed on his side. Throbbing pain shot through his entire head, paralysing his thoughts for a moment as his head made contact with the floor.

He was going to wake up with one killer of a headache after this; of course presuming he got out of here to sleep.

Slowly his thoughts caught up with his memory. Sherlock had been going through the door when...when an explosion on the _other_ _side_...oh, shit!

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, he sat up to see the carnage that had moments before been a doorway. Practically the entire thing had come down, bringing down part of the gallery with it and a lot of dust was beginning to settle. But the thing that was most obvious, most ridiculous and most terrifying was everything had come down on that _idiot_.

"SHERLOCK!"


	3. Ensnared

**Disclaimer:** So obviously this is waaaaaay late and if I owned the show then we wouldn't have had the first series yet.

**A/N:** So sorry this has taken as long as it has but there's this terrible thing called real life and university work that kept getting in the way. So this has been a front-runner in my next-update poll since day one and I've spent the last five days on it, making and polishing. This is also now my most subscribed to story and I thought I owed a lot of people some sort of thanks for the support. I've rewritten a few parts of chapter two as after reading a few reviews and reviewing the chapter myself there seemed to be a couple of problems which I have (hopefully) written out. It's updated, although don't expect the changes to be glaring. Thought it would be easier if I updated them both together. So, please read and let me know what you think. l-h

**Endgame**

**Chapter Three: Ensnared**

Sherlock's plan had been to stay ahead of the explosions, convinced, as he was, that they were lining the room; why else would the rifles have withheld their fire after the bomb jacket exploded?

Yet in the split second between his opening the door and the detonation, Sherlock realised how much he had underestimated this adversary.

The snipers had stopped their barrage of bullets in order to set the charges and vacate the building while Moriarty's second showing was to ensure the two 'meddlers' stayed in the room and didn't discover the detonators.

This room, the room where he had killed Carl Powers, held such memories for Moriarty. It stood as a trophy for his first victory against Sherlock all those years ago, as a testament now to his self-assured brilliance and annoying smug attitude. Damaged as it was, this room was far too important in Moriarty's twisted mind to be destroyed.

The explosions were aimed to take out all the doorways, sealing them in.

Upon this realisation, Sherlock just had time to raise his arms in an attempt to shield his head in the moment the charge exploded.

* * *

Within an instant of the phone starting to ring, Inspector Lestrade had picked it up.

"What?" his bark was impatient and caught the person on the other end by surprise, causing them to stumble over the words as they relayed their message to him. "Alright, I'll be there."

Slamming the phone down, he paused to think about that annoying fool of a man he'd come to count on too much for his liking. Sherlock was always swanning off, chasing down leads on his own, leaving Lestrade in the dark.

Stringing the police along all this time but only when it was all figured out…and then all of a sudden he fell, seemingly, off the face of the earth. For hours, nothing. Not a peep.

Alright, so he always got his man in the end, but there could be no denying that anyone who became involved with that man was always at threat for whatever reason.

And John Watson was _living _with the asshole.

"Another explosion?" Donovan stood on the other side of the desk looking worriedly at the phone before turning to the Inspector.

"Worse." Looking up at Donovan he saw her face change to one of great worry. "Several."

"You think it's this bomber guy?"

"Possibly." He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "We won't know until we get there." He began to stride out of the office.

"So where's the freak?" He turned back to her; the half-smug smile immediately disappearing once she realised he was watching her.

"Are you going to make jokes or are you going to be useful?" She immediately avoided eye contact.

"Sorry, sir." Her reply was through gritted teeth.

Waiting to see if she had anymore to say he looked her up and down. "Alright, then. Inform Anderson. I want you both on site." And with that he left the room, his coat whipping the doorframe as he exited.

* * *

The explosions had stopped, specks of dust were still settling on the scene as John tried to process what was happening. There was no sound from the rubble and a terrible throbbing in the back of his skull told him he would be lucky not to have a concussion now. And he wasn't exactly feeling very lucky

A dull ringing pierced the air, almost like a high-pitched whistling in his ears, left by being so close to the explosion, though it wasn't deafening as he could still hear his own rapid, shallow breathing.

"Sherlock!"

His eyes were fixed on the huge pile of bricks and mortar that had moments before been a door. He paused hoping for some sign of life, a sound, some form of movement anything to indicate there was somebody alive under that…that…mess.

…

There was nothing; no movement, no voice, no sound; nothing; absolutely nothing at all.

"Sherlock!"

…

The silence was grinding; unbearable. From the first moment he'd met the reckless impulsive, insensitive idiot, the man had always been surrounded by noise. Whether it was talking or the sounds of those dangerous experiments in the kitchen, he was never quiet.

"Sherlock!"

The sound of the clattering debris still echoed around the empty room as he waited again for some form of response but nothing seemed to get through to his mind except that there was silence. Horrific, unending silence.

"Sherlock!"

His legs scrambled as the lack of movement and sound continued, while he struggled to push himself up on his arms.

"Sherlock!"

The world suddenly shifted and pain exploded in the side of his temple as his head made contact with the floor once again. Wincing, he cracked an eye open peeking down at the poolside beneath him.

A small layer of water coated the entire floor making it ridiculously hazardous.

_Brilliant!_

"Sherlock!" he was practically screaming as he clumsily tried to shift his weight "Answer me, you…" Finally pushing himself to his hands and knees, his head reeled and he had to stop before his stomach tried to empty itself. "…you…arrogant PRAT!"

The one of a kind, world only consulting detective was…stuck…trapped…in trouble… Hell, he was in trouble…they both were. John shook his head lightly trying to shake the clouded, foggy feeling that was slowly taking over his mind. He just needed…just a bit of time… If he could just think…

There was a gnawing feeling rising in his gut as he carefully pushed himself to his feet. "Sherlock!"

Again, his head reeled and John half-stumbled towards the wall, smashing into with his shoulder. Gasping against the pain and using the wall to prop himself up as he hobbled towards the wreck, he called out again. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

He tripped just as he reached the pile, barely noticing the graze on his hands in comparison to his growing confusion. Reaching out, he started frantically grabbing handfuls of the rubble tossing it out of the way. Handful after handful. Glass, bricks, wire; anything that was blocking his way; anything, everything, all of it was thrown aside. Splashing and clunking quickly filled the air as he grabbed as many lumps of rocks and mortar as he could, desperately hurling it behind him.

"Sherlock." John's voice had quietened, no longer having the energy to maintain his angered shouts. "Come on."

For the first time since he'd met the damn fool, John wished he could hear Sherlock saying something; something derogatory or belittling or ridiculous; something seemingly random but surprisingly relevant to their current predicament. Anything…

But there was nothing but that ever-grinding silence and the continuous sloshing of the pool water behind him.

Then, suddenly…

He stopped clawing at the rubble.

An abnormally thin pale hand stuck out from under what remained of the top of the pile.

There was a small trail of blood crossing the palm, which was facing up. The source of the bleeding wasn't immediately obvious, it could be the hand or it could be somewhere further down the arm, which was hidden beneath the rest of the rubble; there was no telling.

"Shit."

More of the mess began to be shoved, thrown, tossed, anything to move it off the fool that was trapped beneath. But John could feel the growing exhaustion pushing on the back of his brain, forcing its way down his limbs, slowly but surely hindering his progress as he continued trying to dig out his flatmate.

"This is all your fault." He could feel his mind already starting to slow as the adrenaline started to drain from his bloodstream. Each handful was gradually becoming smaller, soon he would only be grabbing at little more than dust and pebbles.

He was so exhausted and just wanted this to be over.

* * *

Most of the windows were shattered to pieces; blasted outwards with the shards spread across the ground, glinting in the mediocre light of the street lamps. A large crack ran down the North outer wall, heralding nothing but more of the same within.

Every doorway within the building appeared to be blocked with no exceptions. The only way onwards was to dig through the rubble.

Initially, there had been little effort by the small group of officers on site to venture within. If for no other reason than the place could still be rigged with explosives, set to go off as someone walked inside.

Pulling up outside the building, Lestrade spotted the small congregation of police officers stood discussing the best course of action. Getting out of the car he prepared to begin organising the team before hearing a familiar tune emerging from his mobile phone.

Sighing he slammed the car door, before reaching inside his jacket for it.

_This better be you, Sherlock._

There were two messages; one was an image, the other a voicemail.

Anderson and Donovan had moved off, setting into motion the necessities for the beginning of their investigation. So it was that Lestrade was stood alone as the voicemail played, letting out one solitary pip.

"God."

Now the bomber was sending _him _messages.

Tentatively, he opened the picture message and he would later, unashamedly admit that what he saw caused his blood to run cold.

A deserted, serene indoor swimming pool.

* * *

Sherlock's right arm and part of his face were now exposed; dirty, dusty and bloodied as they were. Having uncovered them though, John was unsure whether he felt better or worse about the entire situation.

There didn't appear to be any troubling injuries except for two, rather deep cuts; one along the length of his forearm and another, worryingly close to his right eye. Thankfully, John had checked and there appeared to be no major damage to the actual eye but without Sherlock being conscious there was no real way of knowing.

All the while, John had continued to talk to Sherlock even though his brain was almost completely detached from what he was doing and he was fully aware that his flatmate probably couldn't hear him. It was mainly comments such as how Sherlock was _not_ leaving him to clean up the kitchen again or other such things, all brought on by a mild sense of delirium.

Even now he was still working to get Sherlock out; that was his main aim. To be honest, what else could he do?

Yells came from one of the other entrances, the sound bouncing and echoing around the wall and John swore he would never enter a public swimming pool again, if only to avoid that harrowing echo.

"Hey!" His yell, like every word within this place, bounced off the walls and water, warping and distorting and echoing. "We're in here!"

The sounds of people sounded as though they were getting closer but John couldn't be sure any more.

"We're in here!" He turned back to the still form of Sherlock and tapped him on the face. "Wake up. They've found us. Some…someone's found us."

The voices were definitely closer now; John strained to see if he could make out any of the words but his head throbbed heavily, telling him that it was unlikely he would make much sense out of anything else for a while.

There was a clunking on the other side of the pile, bricks being shifted and moved out of the way. Looking over, blurred though his vision was, he saw a familiar shape bent over looking back at him.

"Lestrade?"

* * *

It took about ten seconds for Lestrade to look away from the doctor's battered and bruised face and find what was visible of Sherlock's in the pile of bricks at his feet.

"Shit."


	4. Induration

**Disclaimer:** considering it took me around 18 months to finish this do you really think I could have written, made and/or contributed to two series of the show? Answer: course not.

**A/N:** I know it's been around eight and bit-ish months but I wrote this in parts to keep it clear in my head and altogether I've got about 25 different incomplete versions of them that i scrapped or had to rework so it's not been an easy task. I did try to complete this before the second series started last Sunday but it just wasn't possible. I was worried that seeing the actual conclusion would put me off but, funny as the conclusion was, it was terribly anti-climactic and I was desperate to see this fic through to the end afterwards. So this is the final chapter, I'd like to thank all reviewers, favers, alerters and RedBrickandIvy for essentially being my beta when I wasn't sure. Hope you enjoy. l-h [additional note: this is over, no more will be written]

**Chapter Four: Induration**

It seemed almost impossible to believe but Sherlock rarely ever got hurt during his lone ventures and risky investigations. There'd be cuts and bruises, once possibly even a minor concussion but it always seemed to Lestrade that there was nothing that could truly catch the man out.

Countless times the fool had entered highly volatile and extremely dangerous situations, against the advice of all voices of reason, each time with that damned aloofness of his and each time he'd walk out again grinning like the Cheshire cat and without a scar to show for it. There would be the odd scratch here or there but Sherlock always seemed to have the common sense, possibly the only common sense the man _did_ possess, to keep himself from getting caught in the flames he so often walked through.

Maybe that was why seeing the idiot beneath a small pile of rubble, bleeding, unconscious and being dug out by John the doctor seemed so surreal.

Yet there he was now, half-buried, bleeding and unresponsive while his flatmate, probably the closest thing that man had to a friend, kept looking between the cavalry and his comrade. For some reason, in Lestrade's mind, it was tantamount to seeing a god ripped from his pedestal.

Don't get him wrong. Sherlock was without doubt the most ridiculous, infuriating and self-assured arse of a man Lestrade had ever had the displeasure of needing to call on, but there had never been a time in which Sherlock had been wrong to such a cost to himself. And as the curly-haired git was heaved onto a gurney by several paramedics, the Inspector turned to watch a few of them trying to get some sense out of the good doctor as they aided him into a wheelchair.

The state of neither man was good but even so he strode over to the one who was still conscious, ignoring the glazed look of exhaustion that tinted his tired eyes as the man half-glared up at him.

"What happened, John?"

He blinked slowly before taking a deep breath and letting out one word in a pained sigh.

"Moriarty."

* * *

It was with eagle eyes that Jim Moriarty watched the police officers stand around, squawking like confused buzzards as anybody failed to take the lead and start to sort out the mess that was the building before them.

A slight smile played about his lips as he watched but there was little other emotion except for the pure white-hot anger which flared in his eyes with a fiery rage.

Every single detail of this meeting had been planned. Every possibility had been imagined and for each there had been a counter-measure put into place. The plan was supposed to be infallible and _Sherlock_ was meant to be broken under his heel ready to be put out of his misery; yet it seemed that even with an intellect such as the one he owned, Moriarty had wholly underestimated Sherlock's capabilities.

And, although he truly walked away from this encounter as the victor, the margin was far too slim. For a moment, in those walls, stood by that pool, there had been a single moment in which Jim Moriarty feared for his life; a situation he did not much care for. He had looked Sherlock straight in the eyes and knew that the fool of a man would squeeze the damn trigger.

Fortunately, Sherlock himself had actually taken the majority of the impact.

This was another thought that tugged at the edge of his lips.

The wailing and screeching of the sirens that filled the air almost danced on the breeze before him adding more beauty to the scene that was unfolding. The police sirens were a necessary part of the painting he had put together this evening. Soon the flashing lights were joined by the cacophony of mayhem, sounds and flashes that heralded the approaching pre-emptive ambulance and the music that travelled across the air was almost orchestral.

Of the cars that were drawing into the car park, there was one in particular that caught at his attention. It was, after all his goal to know every detail possible of his adversary's life, and who better to be a part of his nemesis' business than that Inspector who seemed to follow him around as a matter of habit.

With a nod behind himself, there was a series of clicks on a cheap, untraceable phone and within moments he watched as Sherlock's puppy dog took out his own mobile, gazing momentarily at the screen before casting a cursory glance at the shrubbery around him. Jim did not hide, nor flinch for it didn't matter if he was to be seen as the buffoon was hardly aware of who it was he was looking for.

Excitement flared in his eyes as he watched the Inspector run off to the flapping imbeciles who couldn't organise a picnic basket and begin putting things into order. It was heartening to know that some people, even those considered to be your enemy, could be counted on to get things done. There was nothing worse than a piece that didn't play its part properly.

His glee and pride lasted all of twenty minutes, ending the moment he saw a beaten and broken Sherlock being wheeled out on a gurney before hastily being loaded into the back of one of those florescent noise-boxes.

At the sight of something else in his plan having gone wrong, his smile rapidly turned into a scowl. Although the original plan had been to eradicate the threat the men posed, it had changed once the other player had proved himself wilier and more capable than Jim had anticipated. If Sherlock was willing to play with fire the way he had at the pool's edge then there was the potential of many a greater game to be had between them. A prospect that both excited and inspired him.

Yet… If he was foolish enough to change the game when he didn't understand the rules then maybe the moment that evening had been a fluke. Maybe everything between them thus far had been nothing but horrendous luck on the 'detective's' part.

This uncertainty greatly troubled him and already he was devising a way in which to further test the man.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock continued to go on sleeping, chest rising and falling rhythmically while various machines beeped around him. Being a doctor, John knew exactly what each of them was measuring which did nothing to ease his confused concern over his flatmate.

The man was an idiot, completely idiotic and the only reason he was even sat here right now. Incompetent, inconsiderate and…and… Well there weren't enough words in the English language to cover every shade of stupid he was but still John couldn't stem the distress that seeing Sherlock on the hospital bed caused him.

Just more than twenty-four hours had passed since the entire ordeal had come to an end, John had been granted permission to sit by Sherlock's side, having been cleared of any serious injury while two officers stood outside the door to the private room and more officers were patrolling the main entrances to the hospital.

John had told Lestrade everything he had been able to recall, disjointed and confused as it was, and now they were just waiting on Sherlock to wake up so they could see just how bad things were.

The cut on his arm had been quite deep, needing a fair few stitches, as did the head wound although that thankfully wasn't as deep; hopefully that meant the man wouldn't wake up with no memory of who he was and what had happened. The remainder of his injuries had been bruises for the most part and his current state of unconsciousness was supposedly from exhaustion more than anything.

Frankly, John wouldn't be surprised if this was the first time Sherlock was getting a decent night's sleep since this whole bomb debacle began. Hell, he'd probably believe it if it was the first since the two of them had met.

His medical training kept trying to pull him forwards towards the bed to look Sherlock over for the thirtieth time and he kept shifting in his seat, uncomfortable with this useless waiting and mentally cursing whoever happened to come to mind and failed to distract him.

There was a soft click as the door to the room was opened and one of the officers stepped through, his free hand grasped around a steaming mug.

"One of the orderly's left this for you."

His furrowed brow disappeared, quickly replaced by a slight smile as he stood to take it from him. "I'm surprised you didn't keep it."

"Don't tempt me." The officer smirked holding to mug out to him and nodding as the doctor took it in his slightly shaking hands. Once certain John had a firm grip he nodded again before backing out the door, shutting it behind him.

"You're not actually going to drink that?"

Snapping his head to look round at the noise that came behind him, he saw Sherlock lying exactly where he had been for the last day eyes still tightly closed and for all intents and purposes oblivious to the world around him.

"You're awake, then."

"Of course I'm awake." While the rest of him remained still, John couldn't help but feel grateful, if only because it meant he wasn't hearing the man's voice in his own head. A chilling thought.

"You didn't think to…I don't know…" moving over to sit down before placing the mug on the small table to his right, John leant forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and allowing his forearms to hang freely before him, "…let me know?"

"And allow the subsequent petulant fussing of doctors and nurses to ruin the brilliant silence in which I can actually think?" The detective's head turned, his eyes slowly opening as they threw an incredulous look at the doctor sat beside his bed. "Surely you know me better than that by _now_."

Sherlock returned to his former position, his face neutral

"Do you have _any_ idea how worried I've been?"

"I can guess."

"_Really_?" The smile John gave him was nothing if not sceptical. Of all the things he'd found the fool to know about, of which it seemed there were many, none had any relation to understanding human emotion. In fact, from what the doctor could tell, the man hadn't even the slightest shred of sympathy for the feelings of others. "You _really_ think you can guess?"

"Well for one thing you're here, in _this_ room, rather than in one of your own being seen to. Outwardly you appear calm, your composure no doubt coming from years of practicing appropriate bedside manner, but you keep shifting uncomfortably, your right hand twitches and you move as though to stand up but always seem to think better of it and remain seated. Four times in the last twenty minutes in fact. Frankly it's getting a bit annoying now and for the sake of both our sanities I would ask that you please. Stop." Sherlock remained still as he rambled the list of observations he'd had lord only knew how long a time to pick up on. The sight of him concentrating was both reassuring and infuriating as it meant he was better off than John had been allowed to think. "I can guess."

As always, the list was remarkable, filled with points that no other human being would normally dwell on, but there was one really rather obvious point that wasn't included. "Hmm." It was odd how the detective didn't seem to think the fact that Sherlock had been buried under a _doorway_ would have any bearing on how worried John may or may not be.

Unfortunately, Sherlock picked up on the hum of interest and he inclined his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "Did I miss something?"

"No." John reached across to the mug again as Sherlock resumed his peaceful position. It was best not to bother him with it. He'd only get annoyed with the suggestion of the inclusion of worry. It wasn't exactly something he was known for approving of. "No, nothing."

As the mug was raised to his lips, Sherlock spoke up again. "Don't you ever pay attention? I said, don't drink it."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and let his head hang forward, instead gazing in confusion at the steaming mug in his hands as he lowered it again, bracing himself for the usual prattle his flatmate usually came out with. "Why ever not?"

"Would you drink it if _I_ made it?" Well, no, but as John thought on all those strange chemicals that clogged up their kitchen and the little slip during Lestrade's 'drug bust' during their first case, there was a very, _very_ good reason for that. "And yet you're perfectly willing to accept, without thought or question, an anonymous drink from someone you have neither seen or met. Are you insane?"

"You think it might be poisoned?"

"Exactly."

"It's a _cup_ _of_ _tea_!"

"There's nothing more innocent and perfectly acceptable than a seemingly harmless cup of tea. It's an ideal form of attack. Subtle." He settled back into the pillow, closing his eyes as he calmed down again. "It worked against Litvinenko."

"Who?"

There was a frustrated sigh. "Alexander Litvinenko. Former officer of the Russian Federal Security Service. Killed in 2006 by the ingestion of radionuclide polonium-210 found in his tea."

"Radiation poisoning…" John shook his head, disbelievingly. "You're ridiculous."

"We're in St. Bartholomew's are we not?"

"Yeah."

"And it never occurred to you that Moriarty most likely already has accomplices here to keep an eye on us? Accomplices he could very well call on to ensure we don't get discharged?" John was speechless but obviously his silence spoke volumes to the detective in the bed who just shook his head gently. "And you call _me_ ridiculous."

John looked down at his cooling mug, a forlorn expression on his face. Sherlock was right, of course. Insufferable arse. Their first encounter with Jim Moriarty had been on home turf, so to speak. In this very hospital, in Sherlock's home from home and they'd been clueless to the danger they'd been presented with. And Jim seemed to be involved in a great many aspects of their lives, it wasn't exactly impossible.

"If I go make myself a cup of tea, with my own two hands," Carefully, he reached out, replacing the 'contaminated' mug back on the small bedside table, "will you let me drink it?"

"I'm not stopping you drinking this one, that's your own sense of self-pre-"

"Sherlock!"

The detective sighed exasperatedly, his eyes still glued to the off-white tiles that hung above him. "Yes. I will let you drink it."

"Thank you." John bowed his head, shaking it lightly. If Sherlock was able to infuriate him this easily then the man was not nearly as bad off as he looked. "Try not to kill yourself before I get back."

* * *

Sherlock waited barely ten seconds after the door clicked shut before he sat forward and swung his legs over the edge of the bed ignoring the twinge near his hairline and in his right forearm from the stitches that 'held him together'.

His first instinct was to pull out the various wires that hooked him up to several machines, not liking the way they clung to his body, desperately reminding him of something that didn't need to be monitored even in the slightest. He fought it though, knowing that the lack of measurements would set off alarms and cause people to fuss about and around him. Stupid squawking would get in the way of any actual healing process they could use to help him and he'd just end up surrounded by people telling him that he shouldn't be up and about.

A doctor he may not be but he knew better than most what was best for himself. And, as much as the doctor may believe otherwise, he also knew what was best for John.

Reaching over, he picked up the unassuming mug from where it had been left, careful not to spill any over the side. It was ceramic; white. Designed to be a mug and nothing else. No gaudy signs saying best this, or greatest that; not even the hospital's name. Just plain white and unmarked except for a slight chip near the base. Perfectly innocent, almost too much so.

Hospitals are notoriously smelly places, reeking of disinfectant and antibiotics and ammonia, all of it combining to make that sickening smell of 'clean' that caused hospitals to stand out like a sore thumb to any unfortunate who woke up inside.

Placing the mug beneath his nose, Sherlock inhaled gently, instantly recognising the bittersweet smell of almonds.

Cyanide. Somewhat vulgar but otherwise simple, effective and nigh-on impossible to detect somewhere that smelt so strongly of paint-stripper. Still, he raised an eyebrow at the modest mug as he slowly got to his feet, scrutinising it before turning and throwing it at the bland wall behind him.

SMASH!

The mug shattered, the parts it broke into scattering, skittering across the floor beneath the bed and creating rather tuneful chinking sounds as they went. The tea that had been inside it continued moving, splashing up and down the white washed wall, leaving an off-brown pool that instantly began to follow the rule of gravity and flow towards the cold floor.

"Sherlock!" Spinning around he saw John stood with one foot halfway into the room, glaring at him with a look of such fierce anger that he almost wondered what on earth he'd done this time. Almost.

"I thought you were getting tea."

Taking a few strides, John walked over to the small side table picking up his modest mobile phone that was laid there, surprisingly unscathed following their recent 'adventures'. "I forgot my phone."

"Ah." It was odd that Sherlock hadn't come to that conclusion on his own; a thought that John no doubt shared and seconded if the look he was shooting at the detective was anything to go by. As his head swam slightly, Sherlock sat down lightly on the bed, fingers gripping the sheets somewhat but he kept his eyes on the man stood practically in front of him.

"So what did the tea do…" the phone vibrated in John's hand, the familiar tune that accompanied all the doctor's messages, tinkling sweetly and Sherlock watched as he stared at it, slightly confused, "…exactly?"

Not having technically been resting Sherlock knew for a fact that the doctor had already contacted his sister, straightened things out with Sarah, to a degree, and there wasn't a single person who could possibly need to message him, with the exception of Mycroft. Except for the fact that his older brother was currently busy, working almost constantly with Lestrade to find out if there was any way to track down Moriarty. There wasn't. It was amazing the kind of secrets people spilled when they thought you were unaware.

But whatever way you looked at it, however you reasoned it there was no denying that there was only one person who that message could be from.

"It's not so much what it did," Sherlock watched intently as John clicked about with the buttons on his phone, eyes tracing the finger movements and following as the look of surprise grew on his flatmate's face as he opened the message, "more a case of what it was going to do."

Only Moriarty would send John a message at this point. A small, gloating gesture that Sherlock had been expecting. Something simple, a single photo, maybe a few words; but no pips, that part of the 'show' had already been completed. This wasn't about presentation or one-upmanship as before. As he'd already concluded, cyanide was vulgar, sloppy, not thought through at all. It was almost like a test, a proof of his abilities.

"What does it say?" Slowly, John looked up at him, his mouth opening to speak but no words coming out. "John?"

The doctor held the phone out for Sherlock, which the detective didn't hesitate to take from John's slightly shaking hands.

It was a photo message; a well-lit image of a plain white mug on the side in one of the hospital's kitchens; indistinguishable from any other of the billions of mugs like it there probably was in the world by a small chip at the base. Beneath it, as part of the message were the words:

Well done.  
You passed.  
Until we meet again, Sherlock.  
JM

"Thank you." Glancing up he saw that John wasn't looking at him, instead the man's focus understandably held by the dripping spill that hung on the wall behind him. "I guess."

There was a part of Sherlock that felt somewhat insulted as he realised that John hadn't believed him at all. But he remembered everything they'd been through, everything he'd overheard and allowed his mind to register the itching that was coming from his head and arm where the stitches were and figured maybe, just this once, Sherlock would allow him those few moments of doubt.

From what he understood of moments and instances such as this from those damned daytime TV shows John had got him hooked on, this was the point when he was supposed to shrug, smiling like the arrogant prat he was so often called and say 'It was nothing.'

Of course, all Sherlock could think of was how it really _wasn't_ nothing. And so instead, he _said_ nothing as he held the phone out for the doctor to take back.

* * *

Nothing else really happened following the so-called assassination attempt of John Watson, if it could so be called. They heard nothing of Jim Moriarty nor did anyone receive any messages or indication of his existence, even after Sherlock Holmes was finally released from the hospital. No sign save for the unproven whisper upon the wind of some sinister someone driving the majority of London's latest and greatest crimes to fruition.

As before, he was unreachable, invisible and intangible, which only excited the consulting detective.

Already Sherlock's mind was passing over the many possibilities of a challenge that this latest and deadliest enemy offered to him. Yes, Moriarty was dangerous, nothing but trouble and hardship, nearly killed him for pity's sake and had endangered so many people but there was no denying he had made things exciting, even if only for a short while.

And there was something in his memories of this harrowing criminal that spoke to his normally easily-fed up mind. It spurred him to action as more cases came his way and told him that this Great Game of theirs was only just beginning.

And terrifying as this thought was, Sherlock couldn't find it in him to suppress the thrill it imbued him with.

**End of Series 1.**


End file.
